Echo

by Kate Morgenroth

  She nodded and turned back to Justin’s father. “Good luck with your presentation.”

  A moment later she was gone, and Justin and his father were left sitting at the table in silence. It went on so long that Justin was startled when his father spoke from behind his paper. “I don’t want to hear about any trouble at school today.”

  All of this again? Justin thought.

  “Yes. I told you it was going to be like this,” the voice said.

  “Well?” his father asked impatiently.

  “But it’s not my fault,” Justin told his father.

  His father lowered the paper, but this time he didn’t glare. His gaze seemed more agonized than angry, and Justin had the crazy idea that his father didn’t want to have this conversation any more than he did.

  “I don’t want excuses, Justin. I just don’t want anything happening today. Your mother couldn’t take it. I don’t understand why you’re doing it, but I want you to stop. Do you hear me?

  Justin looked down. “Okay. I heard you.”

  “And do you promise that nothing’s going to happen today?”

  Justin didn’t know what to say. So he fell back on an empty evasion. “Gimme a break, Dad.”

  “I want you to promise,” his father repeated.

  There was no getting around it. “Jeez. Okay, I promise.”

  His father sighed as if a great weight had been lifted. “Good. I’d better get to work. Have a good day at school, okay?”

  “Okay,” Justin said.

  As soon as his father was out the door, Justin hurried over to the sink, ran the sponge under the faucet, and returned to his chair to mop up the little pool of blood that was drying on the white tile.

  Then he had to grab his bag and jacket and hurry out of the house. He was going to be late.

  17

  “Don’t worry about it,” the voice told him as he hustled to the bus stop.

  Don’t worry about it? Justin demanded. It’s not like it wasn’t bad enough the first time around, but now I’ve got phantom blood dripping onto the floor of my kitchen, and you don’t want me to worry about it?

  “Yes.”

  I’m going crazy, Justin insisted.

  “You’re just fine,” the voice replied calmly. “Just keep going.”

  So Justin kept going. It was a good thing he had hurried, because almost as soon as he walked up to the stop, the bus rounded the corner and drew to a halt in front of him.

  He wondered what would have happened if he’d missed the bus. Would everything have been different? But it was too late for that, so he climbed the steps, and the doors closed behind him.

  As he walked down the aisle, he felt the eyes of all the kids—staring. Then, just like before, the bus lurched forward, causing Justin to stumble and almost fall. It was just like the last time: All the kids started laughing. But this time it sounded even louder and wilder.

  His nerves were already frayed and, before he could think, he responded.

  “Shut up,” Justin shouted furiously.

  As if on cue, they all stopped laughing. Suddenly he was surrounded by total silence. And that was worse than the laughter—much worse.

  When they arrived at the school, Justin lingered at the back until all the kids had gotten off, then he walked up the aisle and paused at the top of the steps. He waited for the bus driver to speak, and sure enough, a moment later the man said, “I know how you feel, kid. I’d rather go back to prison than have to go back to high school.”

  After his conversation with the bus driver, Justin climbed the sloping hill to the entrance of the school. Walking down the crowded corridor, at first everything was the same as before. It was loud and crowded and kids jostled him from all sides. He was knocked this way and that—until one of the kids ran into him hard, causing Justin to drop his bag. The strange thing was that the kid seemed to rebound off him, like he’d hit some sort of invisible force field. The boy literally bounced off Justin and fell sprawling onto the floor.

  Justin stared. But the boy just scrambled to his feet and hurried away, without even looking over at him.

  “What is it?” the voice asked.

  Strange things are happening again, Justin said. Then he added, But I know what you’re going to say. Just keep going, right?

  He bent to retrieve his bag, and when he looked up, he saw a familiar scene; Billy and his gang had surrounded Daniel.

  Billy pushed Daniel back into the lockers, saying, “Why are you such a faggot? Huh?”

  Ricky chimed in, “Yeah. Fairy faggot. I heard you were looking at Billy’s ass in the locker room.”

  Daniel replied calmly, “That’s not true.”

  Ricky sneered, “I saw you. I saw you staring at his ass.”

  Daniel shrugged. “If I was, it was only ’cuz I couldn’t help staring at his ass pimples.”

  Billy lunged forward, grabbing Daniel by the shirt and slamming him against the lockers again.

  “You’re dead,” Billy snarled.

  It was then that Billy glanced over and saw Justin standing there, watching.

  Justin braced himself, remembering that awful vision of Billy with the cut on his forehead oozing blood—the vision that had come true. But it didn’t happen again.

  “What do you think you’re looking at?” Billy demanded.

  “You,” Justin admitted. “It looks like you’re having a fight with your boyfriend there.”

  “Don’t start with me,” Billy told him.

  “Don’t make me start with you,” Justin replied.

  “I mean it,” Billy said.

  “So do I.”

  The other boys around them followed this exchange closely. Now Ricky jumped in.

  “Don’t take his shit, Billy,” Ricky said.

  “I won’t,” Billy promised. Then he reached out and shoved Justin. Justin retaliated by running Billy back into the lockers. They struggled, the kids around them yelling excitedly. Then Billy got Justin in a wrestler’s clinch. His mouth was right next to Justin’s ear. And he whispered into it—but he didn’t say, “You’ll be sorry.”

  This time Billy said, “I’m sorry.”

  Justin let go and stumbled backward in shock.

  “Go on. Get him, Billy,” Ricky called out.

  Billy looked at Justin, and he shook his head. Then he turned on Ricky and said viciously, “Why don’t you just shut up for once in your life?” and he walked away down the hall.

  Justin watched him go, his heart still beating wildly—as much from Billy’s words as from the physical fight. When Justin finally turned away, he wasn’t prepared. He had forgotten about Megan.

  He turned around and there she was.

  “Hey, Megan,” Justin said. Then he wished he hadn’t spoken at all. He could hear the emotion in his own voice so clearly, he might as well have said, “I miss you.”

  She must have heard it too, because she said to him, “You know, you’re pathetic.”

  Justin tried with absolutely everything he had to keep his face from showing that she could still get to him. But, as usual, the thing he wanted the most was the most impossible.

  She said, “We’d better get out of here. He might decide to beat us up too.” The words were for her friends, but as she spoke, she looked right at him. He wanted to say something—anything—to make her stop looking at him that way. But before he could think of what to say, she was gone.

  18

  Justin suffered through the same torture in his morning classes: He was called on in English, called on in math, and he fell asleep in history—and though he was spared visions of his brother speaking to him from the hallway, he still got kicked out of class.

  After gathering his things, he hurried out of the room; he remembered that he was going to run into Megan in the hallway, and he wanted another chance to say something, though he still didn’t know what.

  As he walked down the hall, he worried that maybe in this version he wouldn’t run into her. But as he rounded
the corner, he heard the footsteps behind him. He stopped and waited, and in a moment she appeared. He saw that, again, she was playing with her lipstick case, tapping it against her palm, but suddenly he realized that she was doing it not to rub it in his face that she was smoking but because she was nervous. He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed that before.

  “That’s the hardest thing in the world,” the voice said.

  What?

  “To be able to see past your own feelings,” it said. “But that’s why you didn’t notice it before.”

  Justin opened his mouth to speak to her. He was intending to say something nice, but somehow he found himself saying, “Did you want something?” Not only that, but to his dismay it came out in a nasty, aggressive tone. It was as if he didn’t have control over what he was saying.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I wanted to know why you’re such an asshole.”

  She brushed by him and disappeared into the girls’ bathroom—and all he could do was watch her go.

  Are you doing that? he demanded of the voice.

  “Doing what?”

  Making me say things I don’t want to say.

  “No. I don’t have any control over anything,” the voice assured him.

  Then what are you doing?

  “I’m not doing anything. I’m just here.”

  Justin turned around, and almost ran into Mrs. Elmeger, his English teacher.

  “What are you doing here, Justin?” she demanded.

  “I got kicked out of class,” he said.

  “Well, go study in the library. You can’t hang around the hallway.”

  She started to walk away, but Justin called after her.

  “Mrs. Elmeger?”

  She stopped and turned around. “What is it, Justin?”

  “Um. Do you smell that?” he asked.

  “Smell what?”

  And Justin heard himself saying, “I think it might be cigarette smoke coming from the girls’ bathroom.”

  He was horrified. Last time at least he’d been able to tell himself that Megan deserved it for the way she’d treated him. Now he knew that he was the one who had started it this time. But he’d still ratted her out. What kind of person does that, he wondered, half-expecting an answer from the voice.

  He didn’t get one.

  19

  Justin knew that Megan was ignoring him. She didn’t look at him once during drama class while Ms. King went through her speech about drama and good acting. She didn’t look at him when she got called on to do her scene. She didn’t look at him until the very end of Titania’s speech, when she said, “My Oberon! what visions have I seen! Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.” That’s when she chose to look, very pointedly, right at him.

  There was a smattering of applause from the class and a couple of whistles from the boys.

  “It’s a sweet ass,” the football player Jake called out.

  “Not too bad,” Ms. King said, nodding.

  The class burst out laughing.

  “I meant the scene,” Ms. King said, but she grinned, seeing the humor in it as well.

  “As a reward, I’m going to let Megan pick the next victim. Who’s it going to be?”

  Megan smiled wickedly. She made a big deal of scanning the rows of faces, pretending to be trying to decide, but it was no coincidence when she finally looked over at him and said, “Justin,” as if in sudden discovery. “I want Justin to go next.”

  “Justin, where’s Justin?” Ms. King said. She spotted Justin at the back, slumped down in his seat. “Okay, that’s you. You’re up.”

  “I didn’t know about this,” the voice said.

  It’s just a stupid scene, Justin replied in his head.

  He got up reluctantly and made his way down the aisle to the front, where he stood awkwardly with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.

  “Which play did you choose from?” Ms. King asked him.

  “Um, Macbeth—”

  “Shhh!” she said violently. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to say that word in a theater?”

  “What? How can it be bad luck to say—”

  “Ah-ah-ah,” Ms. King broke in.

  Justin rolled his eyes. “I was going to ask how it can be bad luck to say the name of a play.”

  “Just the name of this play. And I don’t know how it can be bad luck—it just is. Lots of strange things have happened around productions of MacB. Deaths, suicides, fires—you name it. You’d better be careful, Justin. One actor fell off a stage and severed his head.”

  “How?” someone called out from the back of the room.

  “What was that?” Ms. King turned back to the class.

  “How did he sever it?”

  Ms. King considered for a moment. “I don’t know, actually. But I do know that he wasn’t a very good actor. Critics said it was the best thing for him, really—which also tells you something about critics.” She turned to Justin. “So, which scene have you prepared?”

  “The banquet scene.”

  “Does everyone know the story?” Ms. King asked the class.

  Some students shook their heads.

  “Okay, here’s the rundown. Basically MacB stabs the king when the king is sleeping. Of course he does this because he’s egged on by his wife—because according to most great works of art, a woman is always behind the real evil in the world. But that’s for another class. Essentially MacB’s a good guy, even if he stabs his beloved king to death. Anyway, he gets away with it, and becomes king—until his conscience starts to get to him. And then he starts to lose it. Which is why this is a good selection for our subject.” She turned back to Justin. “So tell us what happens in your scene.”

  “Well,” Justin cleared his throat. “It’s right after Mac—MacB has killed the king. It’s the next night and they’re about to have a feast, but he won’t sit down at the table because he thinks the dead king is sitting in his seat.”

  “Right,” Ms. King agreed. Then she added, “And though MacB is the only one who sees it, it’s still very real for him. What he is unable to do is to see”—she walks over to the chalkboard and underlines the words on it—“the difference between truth and illusion.”

  20

  The boys were in the locker room, changing from their bathing suits back into their regular clothes. Justin was already changed because he’d escaped in there early, after the embarrassing end to his conversation with Tina, but a few of the boys were still in their swimsuits with their towels wrapped around their waists. They were gathered in a tight little knot looking at something on the bench.

  “I bet Ms. King would say this is a great example”—Ricky made his voice high and singsong—“of the difference between Truth and Illusion.”

  They were looking at a Playboy magazine, open to the picture of the centerfold.

  “They’re real,” Peter insisted. It was his magazine, and he’d brought it to show the others.

  Another boy, Sam, snatched it up and looked at the picture more closely.

  “Hey,” Peter protested. “Give it back.”

  “They’re totally fake,” Sam announced, tossing the magazine back.

  As it landed, it slipped off the bench and fell to the floor. Peter quickly rescued it and smoothed out the page reverently, saying, “No way. Those are real.”

  “Yeah, right.” Sam snorted.

  “Who even cares if they’re real or not?” Ricky said. “Actually, it’s better if they’re fake. If they’re real, they’re all droopy and shit.”

  “How would you know?” Peter scoffed.

  “Actually, he might know,” Sam put in. “Have you seen his mother? She’s got huge gozongas.”

  “Motherfucker,” Ricky said, tackling Sam and crashing into the lockers as Sam laughed.

  Justin was standing apart from the group, quietly gathering his books from his locker. When Ricky tackled Sam, he had to step out of the way.

  “If you don’t believe me, ask anyone,” Sam said
when Ricky finally released him. “Ask Billy, why don’t you?”

  Sam looked over to where Billy was standing by the bathroom stalls, deep in conversation with Tim.

  “Hey, Billy,” Sam called out. “Doesn’t Ricky’s mom have huge gozongas?”

  Billy glanced around, frowning. He looked annoyed at being interrupted. “How the hell would I know?” he said.

  “She was wearing that red sweater at the last game,” Sam said.

  That got Billy’s attention. He was suddenly interested. “Oh, shit. That was Ricky’s mom?”

  “See?” Sam said, turning back to Ricky.

  “Come on, Ricky. In eighteen years you had to have noticed,” Billy said.

  “That’s disgusting,” Ricky retorted. “She’s my mom, for God’s sake. That’s like, well, asking Daniel if he knows how big his father’s dick is.”

  Justin looked over to the corner of the room where Daniel was just closing his locker. Daniel had certainly heard the comment—Justin could see it in the way his shoulders tightened as if bracing for a blow—but he didn’t acknowledge it.

  Justin felt a stab of pity. He was usually too overwhelmed by his own problems to notice much else, but at that moment he thought about how hard Daniel’s life must be. Justin was left in relative peace compared to what Daniel endured. There was barely a day that went by that Daniel didn’t get followed down the hallway (boys imitating an exaggerated hip-swinging walk) or heckled in the cafeteria or ambushed on his way to the bus. And somehow Daniel weathered it all and seemed to be able to maintain a certain kind of dignity.

  “Real heroes are usually found in unlikely places,” the voice commented.

  Hero? Justin said dubiously. When he thought about heroes, he thought war heroes—but really what was high school for Daniel but a kind of guerilla war? In that scenario Daniel was trapped behind enemy lines, and there was no way out. Not for years. When Justin thought about it that way, he decided that, if anything, the word “hero” was an understatement.

  21